


The Dangerous Parts

by mirokai



Series: His Professional Capacity [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anthea (Sherlock) is the Best PA, BAMF Mycroft Holmes, Greg is Sweet, Hospital Visit, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Greg Lestrade, POV Mycroft Holmes, Protective Greg Lestrade, physical injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:02:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28539300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirokai/pseuds/mirokai
Summary: Six months after the events ofWhat He Does, a "business trip" of Mycroft's goes horribly wrong and Greg and Mycroft must deal with the aftermath.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: His Professional Capacity [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2078895
Comments: 20
Kudos: 156





	The Dangerous Parts

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT WARNING: While this story does not contain descriptions of violence, it does contain descriptions of extensive injuries caused by violence.   
> Please also NOTE: This story is a major tonal shift from the first two installments in the series. This got kind of dark and heavy, y’all. For those of you who have said you like the way I write Greg and Mycroft (thank you!) this is the same version of the characters but put into a difficult situation. They do find their way through it. If dark and heavy with injury descriptions doesn’t sound up your alley right now, please give this one a miss. When I get around to writing the next part of the series we’ll be back to the lighter stuff, promise. <3 Miro

Greg picked his ringing mobile up off the desk and saw that the call was coming from an unlisted number. He felt hope surge. Maybe Mycroft’s mobile had just been damaged. Maybe Greg had spent the previous two days sick with worry over nothing. 

“Lestrade.”

“Inspector.” The voice was female and crisp. 

“Anthea?”

“Yes.”

“Is he back? Is everything alright?” Greg could hear how frantic his voice sounded, and made himself swallow. Take a breath. “I thought he would be back in touch two days ago.” 

The PA paused and Greg’s stomach sank. She was preparing to handle him. 

“He is back. He will be fine. But he’s currently in hospital. I will pick you up in ten minutes.” 

Greg felt the world spin away from him. “I’ll be outside,” he managed to murmur before ringing off. He stared at the phone in his hand. “I love you,” he whispered. 

It had been six months with Mycroft. Six mad, blissful months of dinner dates, and late night drinks, and truly spectacular sex, and the rare, _rare_ morning when Mycroft was still there when he woke up which often lead to more spectacular sex. It wasn’t all perfect. Mycroft traveled a lot and worked even more. Greg didn’t see him nearly as much as he wanted to, and couldn’t help but worry every time Mycroft went dark for a few days. But it was good. It was really, really good. Early in those six months Greg had started calling Mycroft “darlin’” which he could tell Mycroft liked by the way his eyes crinkled just a little in the corners every time he did it. He had referred to Mycroft, sort of jokingly, as his “lover” when he mentioned him to others, since “boyfriend” felt too juvenile and there was no one who was less accurately described as a “fuck buddy” than Mycroft Holmes. 

But he had never said _it_. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. He had whispered it while alone in the shower numerous times, practicing for when he finally decided that it was The Time. The Time, however, remained elusive. He knew Mycroft liked him, cared about him, enjoyed his company. Greg was pretty sure that with all the responsibilities and machinations and decisions with enormous stakes that Mycroft dealt with every day, Greg was a respite: pleasant, uncomplicated, good for a meal and a shag, someone to complain to about Sherlock who really understood, easy on the eyes if Greg was feeling full of himself.

If Greg tried to make it more than that, if he whispered that electric phrase - much less shouted it from the rooftops like he wanted to - what would Mycroft think? How would Her Majesty’s Spymaster (or so Greg thought of him, Mycroft had never said what his title actually was, or if he even had an official title, or, for that matter, technically confirmed that he was a spy) react to some inconsequential detective saying words that would make their pleasant fling something serious. What if Mycroft pushed him away? 

And now something had gone wrong on one of Mycroft’s trips to god knows where. Mycroft was hurt, badly enough to be hospitalized, and Greg had never told him. Had never said it. 

But here he was in the back of a black car, being taken to see Mycroft in hospital. That had to mean something, didn’t it? You didn’t have your casual fling brought to see you convalescing, did you? Or maybe Anthea just liked him? Greg tried to calm the swirl of emotion and process what the woman was actually saying. Broken bones. Internal bleeding. Bruising. Dehydration. 

It sounded not fatal. Greg rubbed his forehead and tried to force himself to feel relief. “But. How? He - he has protection. What happened?”

Anthea stared out the window for a moment, considering the version of events she could tell him. “He was in another country, conducting a negotiation. With people. It was not going well. For the people. So they decided to take him hostage and try to use him for leverage. They overwhelmed and badly injured his team.”

“His team… was it just the two blokes who are on his security detail now? The blonde and the one with the broken nose?” Greg had managed to clock them on every date so far, but hadn’t gotten their names. 

“I can’t tell you that, Inspector.”

Greg sighed, and silently hoped for the security detail’s safety. They seemed like decent enough chaps, even if only seen from afar. “What else can you tell me? How long did they have him? How did he get back?”

“As soon as we found out what happened we sent an extraction team in. They were successful in recovering him and the team and getting them back. It took 33 hours to plan, deploy, and execute the operation.”

The hitch in the normally crisp voice told Greg how hard those 33 hours were for the woman sitting across from him, even though her face was hard. 

“Have you phoned Sherlock?” he asked gently. 

“No.” The crispness had returned to her voice. 

“Would you like me to?”

“Mr. Holmes’s explicit instructions in the event of his serious injury or illness are that his brother is not to be informed unless his particular talents would be in some way useful or unless Mr. Holmes clearly and cogently requests Sherlock’s presence.”

Greg frowned. Explicit instructions? Of course Mycroft would have a plan for something like this, he certainly had the scars to prove it was necessary. But that would mean… well, he was here talking to her, wasn’t he? He pushed down his cowardice: there were already too many things he wasn’t saying. “Are there explicit instructions about me?”

Anthea’s eyes softened minutely. “You’re to be told as much of the truth as is safe and brought to him as soon as it is safe to do so. He’s been in surgery to repair the internal injuries and set his broken arm and leg. He’ll be out by the time we get there, but likely not awake yet.”

Greg took a breath. “Alright. That’s… alright.”

Anthea’s heels clicked down the wide hallway of the hospital. “You should prepare yourself, Inspector. He has extensive bruising. It looks bad.” She cleared her throat. “But the doctors are confident he will make a full recovery.” 

Greg nodded, his heart in his throat. At the end of the hall was a door guarded by two burly men in suits he had never seen before. As they approached, Greg saw that the men had done nothing to conceal the guns they carried. 

“Not the normal security detail, then?” he asked Anthea quietly. 

“No,” she answered. “The security provided by field agents is best when Mr. Holmes is in the field, which he won’t be for some time. Until he’s back on his feet he’ll have more … traditional guards.” She paused in front of the door and addressed the guards. “This is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of New Scotland Yard. As discussed, he is permitted full access to Mr. Holmes.” 

Each of the men gave a small nod. Greg cleared his throat. “Yeah, thanks,” he mumbled. 

“You can go in,” Anthea told him. “I’m going to speak to the surgeon.” 

Greg stepped between the guards and opened the door, but then stopped halfway into the room with his hand on the doorknob. There was a rushing sound in his ears and his knees had gone wobbly. _Mycroft, oh Mycroft._

No, no, that wouldn’t do. He couldn’t fall to pieces. That’s not what Mycroft would want. Too much sentiment. Complicated, not easy. No. Greg shut the door behind him, squeezed his eyes shut and breathed, in through his nose, out through his mouth. Alright. He had seen scores of car wreck victims, assault victims, victims of attempted murder. Corpses. Greg Lestrade had seen more broken bodies than he could remember. One more wouldn’t upend him, even if that one more belonged to… to… _I love you._ NO! Not that. One more wouldn’t upend him, even if that one more belonged to Mycroft Holmes, the man he was dating. Greg could do this. He opened his eyes again. 

The figure in the bed was as white as the sheets on which he lay, except for where he was covered by ugly purple and black bruises. ‘Extensive’ was a good word for the bruising, Greg decided. There was a cast on Mycroft’s right forearm. _Thank god he’s a lefty,_ Greg thought. Mycroft’s left leg was encased in a large metal cage that extended up to his hip. _Broken femur?_ Greg wondered. It’s almost impossible to break your femur. Christ, what had they done to him? Mycroft’s eyes were closed and wires and tubes connected him to several machines next to the bed. Greg forced himself to move closer. Rope … rope burns on his neck, along with bruising. _Oh god._ No, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Greg pulled up a chair next to the bed and sat. He reached for Mycroft’s hand. Oh, that beautiful hand, those long slender fingers… the knuckles were bruised and scraped, the normally pristine fingernails broken and torn. _Oh he fought back. The bloody idiot fought back! Would … would it be this bad if he hadn’t fought back? Would his fucking femur be broken if he had just gone along?_

Greg took another breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth and felt something start to boil in his stomach. Why hadn’t Mycroft been protected? How could he have been taken captive? Why had he had to fight? There had been _rope_ around his neck, clearly he was fighting for his life. Why? Who was responsible? Who had let this happen to him? 

The door opened and he heard Anthea’s heels click into the room as she came to stand beside his chair. “The surgeon said that everything went well. She was able to stop all of the internal bleeding. He’s badly bruised but no major organ damage. His arm set well and should heal with no problem. The leg also set well and will take time, but ultimately should be fine.”

“Why?” Greg’s voice was a low growl in his throat. 

“Inspector?”

“ _Why_ did this happen to him? _Why_ wasn’t he properly protected? _Why_ did he have to fight for his _fucking_ life with a rope around his neck?” Greg slowly stood and faced Anthea. 

She was about his height in her heels and gave him an even stare. “I have told you as much as I can, Inspector.” 

“This is bullshit!” Greg growled. “You people can keep him under armed guard 24/7, but you can’t prevent _this_? You can’t keep him from having to fight for his life with his bare fucking hands?!” 

A muscle in Anthea’s jaw twitched. “He wasn’t fighting for his life,” she said quietly, looking away from Greg.

“What? He-”

“He wasn’t fighting for his life,” Anthea said more forcefully, meeting Greg’s eyes again. “He was forcing them to hurt him.” 

“What are you talking about? That’s absurd!” 

One of Anthea’s eyebrows quirked up in a clear gesture of ‘Do you think so?’ Out loud she said, “He fought back so that they couldn’t use him for publicity.” 

“What?” 

“He goaded them into beating him so that they couldn’t put his picture on the internet without looking like monsters.” 

“No! No, that’s - that’s -” 

“Gregory…” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mycroft woke to the sound of Gregory breathing. His eyes were still too heavy to open so he couldn’t see his visitor, but no one else besides Anthea and very carefully screened hospital personnel would be permitted in his room when he was in such a state of vulnerability. And neither Anthea nor hospital personnel would be taking deep, calming breaths from three feet away. Hm, one foot away, Mycroft corrected himself as Gregory moved closer. Mycroft heard a rough, almost pained inhale and wondered what Gregory had noticed that upset him. Mycroft assumed that the rope he had been choked with had left marks on his neck. That was likely what Gregory found distressing. There was the deep breath again. 

Ah, he had pulled up a chair. The fact that Gregory kept moving closer instead of fleeing was surely a good sign. Wasn’t it? Oh dear, he was taking Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft’s own breathing became slightly more rapid at Gregory’s touch, but the detective was too absorbed to notice. 

Oh heavens. The number of times Mycroft had thought of this over the last several days. Through terror and pain and the harrowing fight to maintain control of himself, to maintain the smallest particle of control of a nightmare scenario, to keep those unfortunate enough to be with him alive - Mycroft had thought about Gregory’s touch. When his body wanted nothing more than to lose consciousness, he had thought about Gregory’s hand on his stomach. When he was lying broken and bleeding, alone in the dark, he had thought about Gregory nuzzling his neck. When his people had found him, fought to free him, and were moving him - mindful of his injuries and trying to be careful, but still in haste - through the excruciating pain Mycroft thought about Gregory kissing each one of his fingers, telling him he had beautiful hands, and Mycroft had allowed himself to feel hope that he would have that again. 

But Gregory was not kissing his hand now. He was taking another calming breath. If Mycroft’s hands had ever been considered beautiful, they certainly were not at this point. Mycroft could feel Gregory’s tension where their hands touched. What did it mean? Was Gregory going to pull away from him? Was all this going to be too much? Mycroft had certainly not intended to put their relationship through this trial by fire, but since it was happening it would be a useful source of information, and Mycroft had spent his adult life dedicated to the gathering and use of information. 

His association with Gregory Lestrade had been immensely pleasurable, unexpectedly so. When Gregory had first asked him to dinner ( _“You know that I mean it as a date, right? Not just as friends, or colleagues… can I take you out on a date?” those warm brown eyes shining from under the perfect lashes_ ) Mycroft had anticipated a pleasant dalliance at most. And perhaps it was just a dalliance. But Mycroft quickly discovered Gregory to be warm and kind, a generous lover who treated Mycroft gently and tenderly in all their interactions. Mycroft Holmes had never inspired tenderness in others, not even his family. Often respect, sometimes collegiality, intimidation, defensiveness, coldness, fear, but never tenderness and warmth. Gregory felt like spring sunlight, and Mycroft had come to bask in it. He wanted more.

But his life was not conducive to more. He loved his work. Loved the challenge, the power, the information and knowledge. Loved that he was respected and trusted by the nation’s most powerful people. Mycroft’s work meant, of course, that he dealt with things every day which he would never be able to discuss with Gregory. He would be unable to reveal where he was traveling more often than not. Was that a foundation on which to build a relationship with someone as kind and good as Gregory Lestrade? Didn’t the man deserve better? 

And didn’t Gregory deserve someone who would not without warning turn up physically broken as a result of his work? While the assignments that had led to several of Mycroft’s more notable scars were largely in his past, and this most recent occurrence was outside the norm, he could not completely guarantee his own safety. Gregory had accepted Mycroft’s security detail willingly enough following the initial snafu, but what would he make of Mycroft’s current state?

Mycroft felt almost ready to open his eyes when Anthea entered. A positive report on his surgery. Good. And - oh my. Gregory was… angry? _Distressed_ , Mycroft thought. _Distressed about me and expressing it as anger. Interesting. Ah, I was correct about the source of Gregory’s upset being rope marks on my neck. As well as the state of my hand._ Anthea, of course, was completely unphased. She was, by far, the least flappable person he had ever had the pleasure to work with. 

On the plane back to London, after the field medics had stabilized him and administered enough painkillers that he could once again think, and he had been provided with a satellite phone that connected him to Anthea, Mycroft had toyed with the idea of having her tell Gregory that he had been in a car accident. It was the cover story he would be using for his broken arm and leg - almost nothing else could explain a broken femur - and he wouldn’t be seen in public until his other bruising had dissipated. But the thought of actively lying about this to Gregory when he had so much else he had to conceal - the thought of denying himself Gregory’s warm light until after his injuries better matched his cover, was unbearable. 

And now she was telling him - oh no, she was telling him the truth, as instructed. _No, Anthea, the things you admire about me are things that will make him think he should not be tender and gentle with me._

He had to stop this. He forced his eyes open. “Gregory...” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Greg whirled around to see Mycroft’s eyes bleary but open. “Mycroft!” he gasped. Greg dropped back into the chair, Anthea all but forgotten. He took Mycroft’s hand in both of his own, holding it softly: mindful of the bruising. He forced a grin on to his face. “Welcome back, darlin’.” He looked at Mycroft’s hand for a moment, searching for an unbruised place, then gently kissed the back and turned it over to kiss the palm. 

Oh, Gregory was kissing his hand and smiling at him. Mycroft’s heart thundered in his chest to the extent that he marveled that some medical alarm was not set off. “Gregory… I … thank you for coming.” His voice was hoarse. 

“There’s nowhere else I would be, darlin’. Your thugs outside will have to haul me away if you want me to go.” 

Mycroft’s lungs seemed to seize for a moment. “There’s nothing I want less,” he managed. Oh more, he wanted so much more. His gaze flicked to Anthea and he cleared his throat. “Anthea.”

“Sir.” 

“Thank you.” He held eye contact with her. “For everything.” 

“Glad to have you back, sir.” One corner of her lips edged up slightly. 

“I’ll speak with you soon, but for now please give us a few minutes.” 

“Of course, sir. I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.” 

Greg couldn’t take his eyes from Mycroft’s face. There was a bruise on the left side of his jaw and a lump on the right side of his forehead, a cut across his cheek. The circles under his eyes were so dark they might have been bruises as well. He found an unmarked part of Mycroft’s cheek and leaned forward to kiss it. Mycroft’s breath shook on the next inhale and Greg cursed himself. “I’m sorry!” he said quickly. “Did that hurt? I shouldn’t touch you anywhere without asking.” 

“No!” Mycroft replied a little louder than he intended, his hoarse voice cracking. “No, it didn’t hurt. I - um - I suppose I was just surprised that you still want to kiss me.” 

Greg smiled. “What, just because you got a little banged up?” That startled a laugh out of him, and the laugh produced a wince. 

Mycroft grimaced. “I haven’t seen a mirror since…” he cleared his throat, “but I can easily imagine what I look like.” 

Greg kissed the back of his hand again, then the palm. “You look beautiful to me. You always look beautiful, you always will.” 

Mycroft knew that he was exhausted, extensively drugged, and in immense physical pain which he was experiencing as removed from himself, due to the drugs. So perhaps his reaction should be taken with a grain of salt. However, he still felt that it was notable that prior to this week, he could not remember the last time he had felt the pressure of tears in his eyes. It tended to happen when he felt powerless. Prior to a few days ago, when he knelt on a cold floor and watched people who looked up to him be hurt, Mycroft had not been powerless for decades. But now, Gregory Lestrade held his hand and kissed him and called him beautiful. And Mycroft was rendered powerless by relief and happiness. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, looking away. 

There it was. The Time. Greg carefully found an unbruised part of Mycroft’s chin and gently brought it back to face him. Greg took a breath, then started. “Mycroft, there’s so much about you I don’t know. So much I expect that I’ll never know. I can’t tell you what you deserve in the great scheme of things. I can just tell you that you _have me_. For whatever you want that to mean. If … if you want to keep things casual between us, then I understand. But I need you to know -” he paused, breathed, “I need you to know that I love you. I want to be with you.”

Powerless. Completely, utterly, at this man’s mercy. The tears fell. 

The sight of Mycroft’s tears started Greg’s and he quickly wiped a wrist across his eyes then reached out to very carefully wipe his thumb under Mycroft’s eyes. “Don’t do that,” he sniffed. “Anthea will probably give me a broken arm to match yours if she thinks I upset you.” 

Mycroft laughed and winced, then became serious. “I love you too, Gregory.” 

“Can I kiss you? I’ll be gentle.” 

“Yes, I know you will be.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. As I said at the beginning, this is a tonal departure from the rest of the series but I really hope you like it in spite of that. I am very appreciative of your thoughts, either positive or negative. 
> 
> Also, I am now on Tumblr! Come find me @themirokai. I am very new to this and have no idea what I'm doing but would love to connect with you.


End file.
